Yes, I name all my first chapters like this. Also, this kind of writing style is very new to me, so don't make fun of me, okay
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The wind above the walls was different.
It was cleaner, for one. Dry, bitter, and full of sun. But down here, near the edge of Wall Rose—where the smoke still clung to the rooftops like old regrets—it carried a different weight. A dampness. A silence. The kind that soaked into bones and lingered in lungs long after the coughing stopped.
Dr. Grisha Yeager adjusted his collar as he stepped through the narrow orphanage gate. The building was modest—stone and timber, sagging under its own exhaustion. A patch of frostbitten earth led to the steps, crusted with gray slush that hadn't melted in days.
A woman in her fifties greeted him at the door, her apron dusted with flour and ash. Her hands were red from washing, her eyes swollen from sleeplessness.
"Doctor Yeager," she said with a tired smile. "You came."
"I promised, didn't I?"
She stepped aside, and he entered.
The walls were thin, the warmth nearly nonexistent. A fireplace in the far corner offered more smoke than heat. Children's laughter echoed faintly from the next room—muted, distant. It wasn't the joyful kind. It was survival laughter. The kind you forced to forget that you were cold and hungry.
Grisha rolled up his sleeves.
The first few children were young—six, maybe seven. Sniffles, bruised knees, mild infections. One had a loose tooth; another had an old scar he'd reopened falling from a bunk bed. Grisha worked quickly but carefully, offering a smile to each one. Small comforts. Small lies.
"It's just a cold," he told a boy who trembled beneath the stethoscope. "You'll be fine."
He wrapped a girl's wrist. "This'll heal before spring."
They believed him. They always did.
"Last one," the caretaker said, motioning to the far side of the room.
He looked up—and saw him.
The boy was seated on a bench by the window, legs drawn in, arms folded loosely around his knees. Pale light fell across his face, highlighting the hollowness in his cheeks. His eyes were open, watching the world through the frost-laced pane. He wasn't playing. He wasn't speaking.
He wasn't waiting for help.He was simply waiting.
Grisha approached slowly, medical bag in hand.
"Hello," he said gently. "I'm Grisha. I'm here to check on you."
The boy didn't move. His eyes shifted, barely, to meet Grisha's—then back to the window.
The caretaker cleared her throat. "That's Kaelen. He doesn't talk much. Or… at all, most days. Not since he got here."
"How long has he been with you?"
"Two years. Picked up from the Underground during a fire raid. No records. No known family. He's… quiet. Never causes problems. Just stays out of the way."
Grisha knelt, careful not to invade the boy's space.
"Kaelen," he said calmly. "May I check your pulse?"
A moment passed. Then, without a word, the boy extended his arm.
Grisha pressed two fingers to his wrist.
The skin was cold. The pulse was steady.
But beneath it—something else.
A feeling. Not physically. Not tangible.
A tremor. Like touching the surface of a frozen lake and hearing the cracks spider out beneath your hand.
Grisha finished the basic examination in silence. Kaelen remained still, cooperative, emotionless.
"There's nothing wrong with him," Grisha said aloud, more to himself than the caretaker.
Then it happened.
A thought surfaced in Grisha's mind.
Unbidden. Soft. Warm.
Eren could use an older brother.
He blinked. His hands stopped moving. The thought wasn't his—or it didn't feel like it was. It slipped into his consciousness like a memory, something familiar and comforting but out of place.
Grisha turned back toward the boy. Kaelen was watching him now. Eyes steady. Calm.
Like he already knew.
They spoke.
Barely.
Grisha asked his name, already given.
He asked what he liked to read.
"Stories with monsters," Kaelen answered softly."Monsters?" Grisha raised an eyebrow."The kind that turn into kings."
There was no smile. No irony.
Just truth.
Later, standing with the caretaker, Grisha stared out the window at the frost-covered garden. The children were playing now, Kaelen sitting apart. Watching. Always watching.
"I'd like to talk about adoption," Grisha said, quietly.
The caretaker blinked. "You mean… Kaelen?"
Grisha nodded.
She hesitated, then looked out at the boy.
"He's… good. Obedient. Never lashes out. But he's different. The other children forget their pain, even if just for a moment. He doesn't. He just wears it differently. Like he's saving it for later."
Grisha Yeager signed the papers that afternoon.
Kaelen said nothing as he packed what little he owned—one shirt, a half-blanket, and a book with torn pages. He held none of them tightly.
As they stepped into the cold together, Grisha placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.
Kaelen looked up. Just briefly.
And for a moment—just a moment—Grisha thought he saw a smile.
...
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[Auther: Most people can guess what the reference in this chapter was. And the other will guess what power system I've put into this one.
Kaelen is my wonderful, selfish despot. I imagined someone who could truly bring peace.]